


Twas a wooden box

by sourcandy_xo



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feelings, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Inanimate Objects, Personification, Rags to Riches, Sad, Seaside, Writing Exercise, Writing Prompt Wednesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 23:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30096510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourcandy_xo/pseuds/sourcandy_xo
Summary: The box was simply a dead trunk of a tree. The box was an emotionless object. The box was just another among the thousand other things in the life of its possessor. The box may not have mattered, should not have.
Kudos: 2





	Twas a wooden box

It was only a wooden box. A simple five inch cuboidal object coated a humble brown. On the outside, the box displayed intricate carvings of delicate carnations and the initials of its possessor. A holder seemed to be underestimating the bond between the keeper and the box. Just like the late owner, the box was also exquisite, being varnished with only the best paint. They had been together through poverty and through wealth from the birth of the box till the death of the owner.

In the beginning of its years, it was placed under the thin rugs of the worn-down hut just near the sea. When it was in its adolescent years, it was taken to the grumbling old carpenter just across the street and had gotten a makeover. It was quite literally shining in its youth days due to which it was hidden from the greedy looks of distant cousins. Even now, one could remove that loose brick from the grey wall on the rooftop of the third house from the seashore and the box would find comfort in its home.

The box held a lot of things precious to its possessor. The inside of the box blushed with hue of desire, had a velvet lining and a little black smudge near the top right corner where ink had once been spilled. What used to be a rich smooth cloth was now rugged and faded. The box also, was quite the introvert, always hiding from sight like the rats in the house.

This box had housed the most sum of money the owner had earned as a young teen finding happiness in helping others. The little glass bangles of the daughter and the perishing film roles once sought shelter in the very same box. The only gold necklace in the small house found safety within the walls of the box. With the passage of time, all these left their nest and the only trail of their existence was held by the memories of the box.

The box was simply a dead trunk of a tree. The box was an emotionless object. The box was just another among the thousand other things in the life of its possessor. The box may not have mattered, should not have.

Even so, the box had a possessor. The box always had a life. It was easy to overlook the simple details of the daily life of the box, but the box was alive. It was nourished, it could feel and could remember. It provided protection to the rare jewels in the possessor’s life. It felt guilt while storing robbed money. It felt sad when the daughter got married and left home. It felt shy when stared at by strangers. It wept for the death of its possessor. It was only a wooden box.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt - write about a box.
> 
> Could have written about a stainless steel box and explained its composition and structure, but clearly, the universe had other plans for me.


End file.
